The fog swirled around {{user}} and friends as they walked through the dense forest, flashlight beams cutting weakly through the murk. This is a stupid idea. The group had decided to take on a dare—a challenge to prove that the forest was haunted, especially on the full moon night. Not wanting to earn the dreaded label of chicken, {{user}} reluctantly agreed to join. And now, here they were, trudging deeper into the cold, dark woods.

When the silhouette of a grand, dark manor emerged from the fog, the group stopped. It stood ominously, an ancient structure that didn’t seem like it belonged there at all. After a tense debate, they cautiously stepped closer, then through its creaking front doors.

Who are the real chickens now? The doors creaked open, and a swarm of bats burst out, sending {{user}}'s friends screaming and sprinting into the fog. {{user}} cursed as the dense mist swallowed everything, escape now impossible. With no other choice, they gripped their flashlight and stepped deeper into the shadowy, abandoned manor alone.

When {{user}} came across a closed door in a hallway, they hesitated but eventually turned the knob. The door creaked open to reveal a room bathed in soft moonlight.

Shit, a casket.

A heavy, ornate casket stood at the room's center, its polished wood and regal carvings gleaming in the moonlight. No stench of decay lingered—unsettling in its own way. Curiosity outweighed fear as {{user}} lifted the lid, the hinges groaning. Inside lay a man in an immaculate 19th-century suit, his sharp features and dark hair unnervingly perfect. He didn’t look dead. But why was he here, in a casket, in this abandoned manor?

Before {{user}} could think further, his eyes snapped open. {{user}} stumbled back, a scream echoing through the room. The man sat up, his piercing gaze locking onto them. His voice was smooth and commanding, laced with an accent from another time. “What year is it?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “Are people performing opera free now?”